


Something Black and Blue

by MissNaya



Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games), DCU
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Begging, Blood and Injury, Bodily Fluids, Churches & Cathedrals, Crying, First Time, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Feminization, Forced Marriage, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Makeup, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Starvation, Vomiting, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 16:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20745065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: Jason never knows what new, horrible tortures the Joker will cook up for him in the depths of Arkham Asylum. But this one?This is something else.





	Something Black and Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I got possessed by the spirit of someone who writes absolutely awful fanfic and had to get this out there as fast as possible
> 
> potentially the worst situation I've ever put Jason in in one of my fics. :( I'm sorry but only a little regretful

It’s cold and dark and silent, save for the rats that skitter by occasionally to sniff at him and run off once they realize he isn’t dead (yet). The hunger has stolen all of his strength. The stench hardly bothers him anymore, almost reminds him of home. Not home with Batman, in that towering manor full of false hope and abandoned promises; but home in Crime Alley, with his mother and father screaming at each other in the background, as he lets the roaches crawl over his fingers and names them so he can tell himself later he crushed that ugly Maroni himself.

By the time the light comes on, Jason can’t even turn his head to the ground to block his blown-out pupils from burning. He’s more used to the darkness now than he’s ever been.

He wants to sink into it forever.

The Joker is too cruel to let him.

“My, my, my, my, my! You certainly smell _ ripe,_” he says from somewhere behind Jason. On the ground with his legs bound together and his wrists tied behind his back, Jason hears his voice as a great, booming thing, like the sound of God in the Garden of Eden.

But this is no Eden.

“Time for your bath, puppy.”

That’s what Joker usually tells him when it comes time for his bimonthly hose-down. Or is it that often? He can’t tell anymore. Always long enough between baths that his own acrid stench seems to burn the little hairs in his nose.

Except he doesn’t get the hose this time, not right away. No, to(day? night? afternoon?), Joker doesn’t spray him with the cold, painful water with his clothes on and his hands bound so he can’t shield himself. This time, he cuts the barbed wire first.

If Jason had enough strength, he might try to crawl away. Instead, he just lays there, in the same pool of coagulated blood Joker left him in after last night’s “playtime.”

“It’s a special day today,” Joker tells him, which never means anything good. “You should be excited! Let’s get you all cleaned up, see if we can’t put a smile on that sour old face of yours.”

Pale hands strip him of every stitch of clothing and armor. His body underneath is mottled with scars and still-open wounds, haphazardly closed with the inadequate medical supplies Joker and his goons manage to swipe whenever Arkham’s useless guards aren’t paying attention. One gash on his side, held together with two measly stitches, oozes pus down his stomach when his shirt peels away the clotted blood on top.

He can’t do more than grunt.

“Now, what sort of a response is that? This is _ your _ day,” Joker says, whatever that’s supposed to mean. He stopped trying to figure Joker’s plans out in advance a long time ago. “I just want you to remember that.”

Being washed naked is a special kind of hell. At least with his armor on, it takes the brunt of most of the water pressure. Without that small bit of salvation? All he can do is scream. He’s surprised he even has it in him, but apparently excruciating pain makes you do a lot of things you never thought you’d be capable of.

Joker doesn’t make it quick, either. He seems serious about whatever “special” thing he’s got planned, scrubbing at Jason all over with a sliver of bar soap he must have stolen from one of the showers. It burns at his open wounds like acid, and by the time Joker finishes squeezing and washing the pus out of his side, Jason is sobbing softly, no tears left in his eyes. When Joker notices, he gives Jason a few mouthfuls from the hose. The stale metallic water tastes better than anything he’s had in weeks.

“Now.” Joker pats Jason’s bruised shoulder as he lies, shivering, on the concrete. “I’ve got to go get myself ready. And you know what they say: it’s bad luck if I see you too soon! Toodles, Robby-poo…”

Joker leaves as two heavy sets of footsteps come down to take his place. He doesn’t look up to see who they are, but strong hands hoist him up under the arms and drag him over to one of the few parts of the room that aren’t doused in water and filth.

They wipe him dry with rolls of thin toilet paper until he’s no longer sopping and shivering. A few of his wounds still leak, so they shove more toilet paper against those wounds and hold it on with duct tape. The tape also sets his ankle, which hasn’t worked right since his first day down here. It’s not broken at the moment, but it gets sprained and dislocated so often that the extra support, mediocre as it is, actually helps.

Jason doesn’t ask what the “big day” is, and the men don’t tell him. They work swiftly and silently, manipulating his limp body like he’s a doll.

Speaking of dolls.

When they start to force him into new clothes, he knows it’s a dress they’ve chosen. He can feel the scratchy brush of lace over his injuries, the satin fabric fall over his legs and then some, much longer than it needs to be. It would be more of an indignity if it wasn’t such a welcome change from his rigid, blood-soaked, pungent uniform.

What _ does _ bother him is when two meaty hands drag their way up his legs, a thin strip of fabric stretched over one of the men’s fingers. He looks up at Jason from his place crouched down between his legs to leer, his grin turning Jason’s stomach sideways.

It’s only when they tug up to his waist that Jason’s heart slows down enough for him to realize what just happened. _ Panties. _ Those are women’s panties on him now, too small, and then those disgusting hands grabbing his cock and balls to stuff them in as best as they’ll fit. By the time Jason’s even able to move his mouth, it’s over, but the feeling lingers.

It doesn’t go away as they follow it up with a lacy garter. It doesn’t go away when they force his feet into heels that aren’t his size, like he’s one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters. It certainly doesn’t go away when the men grab his face, sloppily applying cold, creamy things on his lips and eyes and cheeks (and oh, that last one makes him whimper when they rub over his still-sensitive brand).

Then they shove a burlap sack over his head, and that’s when Jason starts to cry anew.

The hot, suffocating feeling of wearing that sack brings him back to his first few days here. Joker would keep him like that for minutes or hours, sometimes sticking around, sometimes leaving Jason to twist and jump and scream at every drip of water and scutter in the dark corners of the room. His mind would fill in the blanks with awful images, monsters and death and decay, until Joker would lift the bag and find Jason sobbing, sweat-drenched, begging for pain rather than having to live any longer with the uncertainty.

That’s why the first thing he feels is relief when they drag him up the stairs and through the halls. Moving with the bag on his head means they’re just doing it to keep him from seeing where they’re going. It (hopefully) doesn’t mean more punishment with it.

He can do this, he resolves to himself as they go left, right, right, up a shorter flight of 7 stairs, then right again. He can take whatever’s going to happen to him, as long as he can see it. Two doors at the end of a long hallway creak open slowly, and Jason smells incense and the body odor he’s come to know as the densely-packed stench of the mentally incapacitated.

Then they pull the bag off his head, and he knows right away he was wrong.

It’s the chapel. Rather, the small, shitty approximation of the inside of a church, generously included so the criminally insane can occasionally stop by to ask forgiveness for their sins. Or piss in the holy water dishes. Knowing Arkham’s average resident, Jason feels like he knows which of the two is more common.

It’s not barren and empty like it normally is. The pews are packed with people, from Penguin to Killer Croc to Calendar Man to Scarecrow and everyone in between. A few of the big players with good outside connections are dressed to the nines, suits and ties and tophats, while others have spruced up their inmate orange with origami corsages and cravats made of napkins from the cafeteria.

The doors are flanked by a few guards who all wear that same look the few times Jason sees them: skittishness masking absolute terror. He can only imagine what sort of twisted blackmail Joker has dangling over their heads to have made them approve this scene.

And Joker. _ Joker. _ Standing down at the end of the carpet by the altar, smiling that big red smile and wearing a nicer version of his usual purple-and-green suit, is the man himself, one finger to his eye like he’s wiping away a tear.

Everyone else is staring back at Jason, too. Their faces loom over him with twisted smirks and muffled laughter, and he doesn’t quite realize why until he looks down, cheeks burning, and finally gets a good look at what he’s wearing.

It’s not just a dress. It’s a _ wedding _ dress.

The long, soft fabric is ragged and off-white, but it’s still clear to see by the ornamentation and style what it’s meant to be. There’s a long red-brown stain down the front, making Jason wonder why the two goons even bothered to patch him up at all. Not like he’s at risk of ruining some designer dress in perfect condition.

Before he can dwell on any of it — before he can even really process it — the Joker’s nasally voice bursts through the air, echoing off the high ceilings of the chapel.

“Oh, darling! You look more beautiful than I’d ever dreamed!” he gushes, putting on the exaggerated tone of an actor in the 1930s trying to play up a romantic scene. “Your dress, your makeup… But something’s missing! Where’s my beautiful bride’s bouquet?”

Bride? Bouquet? Jason feels like he’s been punched in the gut, hanging limpy there between the two men. If not for them, he’d have already collapsed from the shock.

“What… I don’t…” He’s still not hydrated enough to speak properly, lips chapped and wounded beneath what he now realizes must be lipstick. He looks around with pleading eyes for answers or mercy, but he finds none in the sea of inmates who’ve already made it known on more than one occasion just what they think of Robin.

He blanks out mentally for the next few moments, as Joker says something else about flowers, and “the father of the bride,” whatever that means. But it’s drowned out a second later by the groaning of the organ, firing up into a rendition of “Here Comes the Bride” that sounds more like a Frankenstein’s monster of garbled notes than anything.

It truly is a nightmare. Jason doesn’t think it can get any worse than this, until someone shoves a “bouquet” of those same origami flowers painted in all different colors into his hands. The inmates aren’t allowed paint, of course, so from what Jason can smell, the colors come from different condiments and other fluids he doesn’t want to try and identify.

“I am so proud of you, son,” the person says, and when Jason looks up, he realizes how wrong he’s been _ again. _ It can always get worse. With the Joker, it always does.

Staring down at him with a fond smile is Batman.

It’s not _ really _ Batman, of course. Not Bruce Wayne under the cowl, his jawline’s not right, his stubble grows in a different pattern, his voice is a gravelly mockery of what criminals make Batman sound like when he’s not around to punch them out for it. Probably Catman or Blockbuster or any other one of the dozen or so inmates Joker has forced into the costume during Jason’s time here, just to fuck with him.

But this? This is a whole new level of fucked up.

Jason squirms as the two large men hand him off to “Batman,” who takes his arm like a father ready to walk his daughter down the aisle. He’s so weak, though, that he ends up slumped against him to stay upright, and one broad hand grabs his waist protectively, just a little too low to be comfortable.

He thinks, at first, that it’s Harley who skips in front of him in a short skirt and blonde pigtails, but no, it’s just another inmate wearing one of her outfits. And it makes sense. Of course she wouldn’t be here for this. Probably has no idea this is what her “puddin’” gets up to when she’s not around. Though Harley’s not around, Ivy must be somewhere in the asylum, because the makeshift flower girl tosses more torn-up pieces of napkin onto the walkway instead of actual flower petals. Ivy would slaughter them for killing any of her “children” for such a farce. Jason wishes they’d tried it.

Though his feet feel heavy as lead, particularly the one with the bad ankle, he has to try and stumble forward when not-Batman starts to walk him down the aisle. The high heels, though just an inch or two in height, are so ill-fitting and painful that he can’t make it two steps without whimpering. And the inmates see it, and they laugh, their uproarious, mocking cheers cutting through him all the way to the bone. He couldn’t feel more naked if they stripped him down in the middle of the church for God and everyone to see.

But that’s just silly. There is no God.

There’s no one but the Joker waiting at the end of the aisle for him, flanked by inmates playing dress-up as bridesmaids and groomsmen. And behind him is Two-Face, in some goofy-looking powdered wig, with a bible in his hands and a cross hanging around his neck.

It seems to take forever to get from point A to point B, the ugly music a ghoulish accompaniment to what might be the worst day of his life yet. But it’s still over too soon, and he’s left there standing in front of the Joker, not-Batman’s arms slipping away so he can go stand with the other groomsmen right in Jason’s line of sight.

Having to support his own weight, Jason nearly falls. Joker catches him and laughs in his ear, and the way it tickles the back of his neck makes him wish he’d crashed into the ground and broken a bone or two instead. That would be far less painful than being in the Joker’s arms.

“Look at you swoon,” he laughs, always _ laughing. _ “I know, I know. I would too if I got to marry such a catch.”

“No,” Jason says, too soft, too late. “No, nonono…”

Joker rights him, hands firm on his shoulders, holding him an arm’s length away now, and it’s still too close. Jason leans most of his weight on his good ankle, but even then, the nausea and shame makes him want to vomit down the front of his gown.

“Not having second thoughts now, are you, pumpkin?” Joker coos. “Not when we’ve already put down so much of your daddy’s money on the reception!”

“Batman” smiles at him over Joker’s shoulder. Jason looks away before he can puke.

“No,” he says again, because it’s all that’ll come out. _ No, _ he isn’t doing this. _ No, _ this can’t be happening. _ No, _ he’s not just going to play nice and let it keep going on.

But Joker doesn’t take it like that.

“No? Perfect!” he says, grinning with all of his yellow teeth on display. “Take it away, Harvey! Quick, before he can change his mind again!”

He laughs, loud and echoing, and everyone else in the chapel joins in (save for the guards still standing near the entrance, hands clasped, trembling, useless). Two-Face opens his bible and starts to read.

The ceremony is as disjointed and chaotic as you’d expect one fully-staffed and attended by the criminally insane to be. Every few words, someone else shouts something out, be it blasphemous or sexual or just plain nonsensical, word salad babbling like a brook in the background beneath Two-Face’s loose interpretation of the text.

“Joker, do you take this…” A cursory up-and-down glance before he decides on, “_boy _ to be your lawfully-wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, in illness and in health—”

“Probably more of the former,” Joker interjects under his breath.

“—for richer or for poorer, til eventual, gruesome death do you part?”

“I don’t know about all that,” Joker says, “but at least until the end of the night, I do.”

“And Robin,” Two-Face says, turning to him. Jason wants to scream _ that’s not my name, _ but he doesn’t get a chance. “Do you take this clown to be your lawfully-wedded husband, to be had and held by, from this day forward—”

“Until the end of the night,” Joker smiles.

“..._ until the end of the night,_” Two-Face amends with a narrowed eye, “in illness more likely than health, for richer or for poorer, til eventual, gruesome death do you part?”

“N—”

Before he can get so much as a syllable out, Joker grabs his face and squishes his cheeks together until his lips purse, manipulating his face like a puppet as he speaks in a squeaky, cartoonish voice.

“_Holy matrimony, Batman, I do! _”

“Right.” Two-Face claps the bible closed and looks around at the room. “Does anyone here have a reason as to why these two should not be wed?”

A few people snicker, but no one says anything. In those few seconds of silence, Jason mentally lists off dozens of reasons. He opens his mouth to speak them, gearing himself up for a theatrical _ I object, _ but someone behind him takes advantage of his mouth being open to pull a length of cloth between his teeth, gagging him. Jason tries to say something anyway, tries to beg and plead and yell and curse through the gag, but they all just ignore him, Dent raising his voice to be heard over his cries.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife!”

The audience erupts into a cacophony of mean-spirited cheers, while Joker grabs Jason’s left hand and forces a ring onto his finger. The gold band and white diamond are flecked with the same brown-red on Jason’s dress. Joker leans in and whispers once more into his ear.

“Don’t tell Harley, sweetums. This is our little secret…”

_ Yeah, _ Jason thinks, staring with wide, bloodshot eyes at the unruly crowd. _ Our little secret. _

Then Joker grabs him by the face and presses a quick, sloppy kiss to his bared teeth, and scoops him up to carry him out of the chapel, trailed by two dozen maniacs lobbing handfuls of overcooked rice at Jason’s face as they go.

The “reception” is worse than the wedding itself. They move to another empty room, an old rec hall that got shut down after one of Arkham’s bloody riots. It’s still full of chairs and tables, all of which have been decorated with toilet paper streamers and messily-written “Just Married” signs scrawled onto the few napkins that haven’t been turned into foliage.

Somehow, the crazy bastards even managed to bake a cake. It’s a droopy, ghastly thing, with runny icing slathered on haphazardly, and a few places have already been nibbled away by the resident rat population. After scaring them away (a few stomps from Bane do the trick), he and Joker stand next to it, Joker’s hand over his as they cut the first slice with a knife that Jason doesn’t even have the strength to plunge into his own throat.

He hardly feels conscious as Joker shoves half the piece into his face, cackling like it’s all one big game. He even complains when Jason doesn’t do the same to him, forcing him to crush the remaining half up against his ugly pale visage. The little bits of frosting and cake that pass Jason’s lips actually don’t taste bad, but they’re so cloyingly sweet that his empty stomach rejects it immediately, sending him into a gagging fit.

The rest of the party is a similar haze of chaos and unpleasant things, from the speeches about how much of a little bitch they always knew Robin was, to the “bouquet” throwing ceremony, where Victor Zsasz stabs at least 2 other inmates on his way to grab the stained napkin bundle.

But the worst of it, he thinks, comes when they all force him into a chair and Joker gets down onto his hands and knees in front of him.

Two men hold his arms back as Joker’s fingers find the end of his dress, pushing it up over pale, bruise-mottled legs. His ankle is red and swollen to the point where the ill-fitting shoe is stuck there, and he’s so ghostly white from months of being out of the sun that he actually looks whiter than the dress. Jason thrashes as much as he can, but he’s so painfully weak that he can’t even rock the wooden chair he’s in, much less the hulked-out psychopaths holding him in place.

“Get off me, you creep!” he yells, voice cracking from disuse and growing terror. He tries to kick out with his good leg, but Joker just grabs his ankle and forces the dress up his thigh.

“Young brides,” he jokes, at the other inmates, not Jason. “No mind for tradition.”

_ Fuck your tradition, _ Jason wants to say, but his voice catches in his throat when Joker sets his teeth on the edge of his garter. The bulk of the dress covers his crotch, but it’s hiked up far enough that the slightest wrong movement will expose Jason to the whole room. He freezes, too aware of the feeling of lace against his cock, of the Joker’s teeth nipping his skin in an attempt to get a good grip on the garter.

They stare at each other as Joker slowly, slowly drags it down, over cigarette paper scars and duct taped wounds. Like a threat or a promise, his fingers trail behind the garter, goosebumping Jason’s skin and sending a shiver up his spine.

Then it’s off, and Joker unceremoniously spits it out and gets up off his knees. The crowd cheers again, and Joker offers up his hand.

“C’mon, baby,” he says with a wild gleam in his eye. “Let’s dance.”

The next few draining hours are nothing but pain. Their “first dance” is to the tune of Careless Whisper as performed by someone with all the musical grace of a dying cat, Joker humming and swaying as Jason slumps limply in his arms, bad foot dragging, occasionally stepped on by “accident” when Joker decides he isn’t in enough agony already. At one point, someone calls him out for his sallow face and nauseated gagging, and the group somehow collectively decides he’s Jewish, and that’s why he’s not “into it.” He spends the next few minutes desperately clinging to a chair that the inmates hoist high above their heads, then vomiting onto the ground in a sea of broken glass as they laugh and clap and shout “_Mazel tov! _”

He almost cries with relief when things finally start to wrap up. The guards and a few low-IQ grunts begin cleaning up the mess, cake and vomit and sopping-wet napkins plastered to nearly every surface. The whole room smells like he’s trapped in a sauna with 50 sweaty men and a rotting corpse. Joker lifts him into his arms again, and Jason, light with malnutrition and exhausted from all the time on his feet, just hangs there, eyes blankly staring up at the ceiling.

The sounds around him have morphed into a high-pitched ringing in his ears, with low undertones of people talking and shouting and laughing, warped and far-off as if he’s trying to listen while underwater. He doesn’t hear what they say as Joker walks him out, but he does hear their cackling, the dull _ slap _ of their hands on Joker’s back and shoulders. Like they’re congratulating him. Like this really is just one big party.

He thinks they’re going back to the basement now, back to his “room.” He never thought he’d miss it so badly. But instead of going back the way they came, Joker carries him down a different hallway, flanked by a few snickering stragglers and one of the white-faced guards.

He’s so tired. He’s so, _ so _ fucking tired, and all he wants to do is sleep, to put this nightmare to bed and wake up to a new day of torture that might not be quite so horrifying.

But the guard unlocks a cell for them and lets Joker make a show of “carrying him over the threshold,” and when the heavy door swings shut behind them, Jason’s heart sinks.

The cramped cell has been decorated much the same way as the chapel and rec hall. Toilet paper and napkins strung up, “J_ust Married_” scrawled on one makeshift banner, torn-up napkin “flower petals” scattered across the floor.

In the center of the room, bulked out with pilfered old mattresses and thin, stained sheets, is something masquerading as a bed.

Joker grins at him as he sets Jason down, and that’s when it all clicks in his head.

“No,” he says, before Joker can even get a word out. “No, _ please. _”

“What sort of an attitude is that?” Joker coos, pulling off his gloves one by one. “Where’s your spirit of _ adventure, _ wifey? Or duty, at the very least.”

Jason shakes his head back and forth, slowly at first, then faster as his fear and disbelief grow. He doesn’t want to accept it. He _ can’t _ accept it. He thought, maybe naively, that there were lines even supervillains wouldn’t cross. Things too heinous for even the Joker.

But today, this horrible day, has crushed up and thrown out every single one of his expectations.

His blood runs cold when Joker slips his suit jacket off, then his bowtie (but not before giving it a theatrical squeak and grinning at Jason like he’s supposed to laugh). He looks around the room for something, anything to use as a weapon or a shield, but the room has been stripped bare of even its toilet. There’s nothing inside but the decorations, himself, and the Joker, cut off from the rest of the world by three and a half inches of thick, unrelenting steel.

There’s nothing he can do. Nothing but scream at the door, “Help me, please, _ help me!_” in the hopes that maybe the guard will have a change of heart and…

And what? Try to take down the gaggle of crazies surrounding the door by himself? Radio for the other guards and hope he gets killed quickly for it instead of slowly? Cross the Joker himself, just to save a ratty kid who no one’s looking for?

_ Get real, Todd. No one can help you. _

It doesn’t make it any easier to accept it when Joker gets down and crawls on top of him, that shark’s grin looking even more feral and dangerous than usual. Jason thrashes out with his arms and his legs, as hard as he can even with all his new wounds, but it’s no good. Joker catches his wrists with ease, and his legs are too tangled in his dress to do much good. Still, he fights; he fights, because he’ll be _ damned _ if he lets this happen like he let everything else happen.

“Oh, calm down, calm _ down, _ sweetheart!” Joker chides. “I know, the first time always hurts, but it’s _ supposed _ to. And when have I ever steered you wrong?”

Jason isn’t about to entertain Joker’s fucked-up roleplay. He tries to spit in his ugly face, but he’s too dehydrated, can only muster up a few drops of spittle that hardly reach Joker’s nose. His wrists are so slim, his arms so weak, that Joker can pin both of them above his head with one cold hand. The other starts trailing downward, over the lace front covering his chest and down to the satin over his stomach and legs.

“You know,” Joker says, and Jason tries to keep his legs shut, but the bastard pries them apart with ease. “Back in the old days, they’d bring other people in to watch the marriage consummation. Make sure the bride was really as _ pure _ as she said she was. Advisors came, court members… Even the couple’s own family!”

“Stop,” Jason says through gritted teeth. His voice is tight, just on the edge of hysterical. He gets closer and closer with every inch Joker’s hand trails up his thigh.

“Imagine that,” Joker continues, like he didn’t even hear. “Me, you, Batsy… Except he already gave you to me, didn’t he?”

“That wasn’t him!” Jason snarls.

“Oh, but it was! Maybe not there in the chapel…” Joker leans in, red lips hovering just close enough to Jason’s hammering jugular that he can feel a tickle. “...but he hasn’t exactly come ‘round to collect you, has he?”

This again. The conversation Jason hates most of all. He wrinkles his nose and tries, like he always does, not to let it get to him, but his eyes sting with tears that try their hardest to form despite his dehydration.

He doesn’t argue. He never does anymore.

“Don’t worry,” Joker says, all chipper again as he draws back to smile in Jason’s face. “We can always call some of the others in to bear witness, if you’re upset Daddy couldn’t make it.”

The only thing Jason wants less in this world than for Arkham inmates to watch Joker rape him is for Joker to rape him in the first place. And even using that word in his head feels wrong, feels like a deep violation that he can never dig back out. He doubles up his efforts as Joker’s fingers find the edge of his panties, right by the jutting bone of his hip.

“Don’t do this,” he says, and even he’s surprised by the weight he puts behind the plea. Like he actually expects Joker might listen this time, realize that this is a step too far. “_Please, _ don’t do this. I’m begging you. _ Please, _ Joker, fucking— Please!”

He ends on a shout, terror creeping into his chest as those cold, invasive fingers start to tug down. His skirts are all hiked up, and Joker is looking at his crotch, not his face, laughing a delighted little laugh as he pulls the waistband out and lets it snap back into place.

He’s not listening. He’s not _ going _ to listen.

“My, you _ are _ a catch, aren’t you?” he chuckles, slapping Jason’s bruised, lanky thigh. It’s not a hard blow, but even that much makes him jump and groan in pain. “I only hope the goods didn’t come damaged. You can never tell these days, especially not with sidekicks… Tell me. Bats didn’t pick a sample off the ol’ grapevine before I came around, did he?”

It’s not the first time a criminal has lobbed disgusting accusations at him like that, but it hits hardest now, with his legs spread and his most private area on full display, covered only by a thin strip of white lace. The thought of Bruce doing something like this to him tears a sob from his throat, painful and ugly, to which the Joker just laughs.

“Well,” he says. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

“No. No, _ no! _ ” Jason screams, kicking his legs out, bumping his swollen ankle against the wall of the too-small cell in his efforts to struggle free. Joker starts to pull his panties down again, slowly, dragging it out, making it last. “Don’t do it, don’t do it, please, _ help me! _”

The only response he gets is loud banging from the other side of the door, accompanied by muffled jeers and laughter. The inmates peering into the tiny barred window and poking through the meal slot shout things at him, nasty and degrading things, encouraging Joker to continue with their enthusiastic presence.

A clown needs an audience, after all.

The panties get tossed to the side without a second thought, then Joker is grabbing his thigh, forcing his leg up, dragging a thumb over his skin to expose the pucker of Jason’s asshole. Jason shouts, cries out with everything in him, no words left to express how desperately he’d give anything to be out of this situation, to never have to think of it again.

“So dramatic,” Joker sighs. “Save some of that for later, hot stuff. We _ do _ have all night.”

“Please, I’ll do anything you want.” Jason’s voice is small, deferential. It trembles with unshed tears. “Not this. Please, _ god, _ not this…”

“Psh. So much for ‘anything.’” Joker draws his hand back, and for a second Jason thinks he might have a chance, until he hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper. “Virgins. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em, isn’t that right, fellas?”

The men on the other side of the door cheer, and one of them starts a chant. “_Pop that cherry,_” he says, rhythmic, joined in short order by the others. “_Pop that cherry! Pop that cherry! Pop that cherry! _”

Jason feels something against his leg and looks down before he can think better of it. He looks away just as fast, eyes screwed shut, head turned to the side, even half a second’s glance too much for him. He’s never thought of Joker as a sexual being before. Never _ wanted _ to, never in his worst nightmares. Always figured Harley was barking up a dead tree.

How many times can he be proven wrong in one single day?

“Now now, no need to be shy,” Joker croons, reaching up to cup Jason’s chin. “It’s the twenty-first century. You’re allowed to take a look.”

Jason sets his jaw, tries to keep his head turned to the side. Tries to block out the cacophony of sounds, banging and chanting, laughing and jeering, and just pretend none of this is happening. Sometimes, when Joker tortures him, he can manage it. Can jump outside his own body and watch it happen without being there to experience it. Those times, when he can pretend Jason Todd is just a ghost of the past, a different entity entirely, those are the best.

But Joker never lets him stay like that for long.

“J_a-son._” His voice is sing-song, too sweet. By now, Jason can identify that tone, the warning that comes with it. “My dear, darling boy. Be a good little wifey and open those eyes, won’t you? I want this night to be _ special. _”

_ Special. _ Joker’s voice echoes in his head, behind his closed eyes. _ Your special day. Remember that. Your special day. _

What’s left of his resolve breaks completely. His brow goes from rigid to furrowed, mouth from clenched to screwed up in pain, a hollow sob shaking his chest. He untenses his neck and lets Joker turn his head, lift it up, facing down between their bodies. Body shuddering with more, smaller sobs, he forces himself to open his eyes.

It’s not a sight he ever wants to describe. It’s something uncanny and forbidden and _ wrong, _ Joker’s hard— his _ thing _ there between his legs, deathly white and framed by pubes just as green as the rest of his hair. God, it might even be _ funny _ if it weren’t so disgusting. If it were happening to Jason-Todd-the-ghost, not Jason-Tood-that’s-me-oh-god-this-is-happening-to- _ me _-it’s-really-happening.

“...Tough crowd,” Joker says, when Jason doesn’t give him whatever the hell kind of reaction he was expecting. “Don’t worry, sweetums. It feels better than it looks.”

He releases Jason’s chin and laughs, really _ laughs _ in that loud, screeching, deranged way that only he can manage. The laugh that follows Jason into bed at night, that curls up around him and nestles in his ears, that he’s sure he’s still going to be able to hear well after he’s finally dead and buried.

And then—

—he’s _ in. _

No preamble. No preparation. Just a blunt head followed by a stabbing pain, and it’s so fast that Jason can’t believe it, wants to go back, find the moment right before Joker enters him and pause it and figure out what to do to keep it from happening.

But he _ can’t. _ He never can. It happened, and it’s happening, and that’s his own voice screaming over cheers and laughter and more “_Mazel tov!_” just outside the door. Right there, not ten feet away, there are people there, real people, a guard, a guard with a gun and a job to do that he _ isn’t doing. _ There are people, living and breathing, who are bearing witness to this, imprinting it in their memories so that pieces of this night live on over and over and over on repeat in heads he can’t snatch those thoughts out of. His first time, his loss of virginity, his rape. The last thing he had to himself, torn away and snatched up by whoever can get their grubby little paws all over it.

“Would you look at that,” Joker says, pulling back, reaching down to rub his fingers over where his (_ no no no no _) and Jason’s ass meet. When he lifts them up, they’re red. He shouts over his shoulder, “This one’s a virgin, boys! —Well.”

He drags his bloody fingers down Jason’s cheek, through the foundation and running mascara, wiping the blood off on the J-shaped brand.

“_Was,_” he corrects.

The unruly banging and whooping on the other side of the door very nearly drown out Jason’s cries. But Joker is too close to him _ not _ to hear. Every hiccup, every whine, every frantic little sob and sorry attempt at begging, each one earns him a grin.

Sometimes he even gets a kiss.

At some point, Joker let go of his wrists, but Jason can’t think about fighting. Hardly has the presence of mind to look off to the side before he vomits. Joker kisses his neck and pounds into him with both hands on his hips, every thrust like a stab from a knife, every press of his lips another violation that sinks like poison into his skin, settling into his bone marrow where he’ll never, ever be able to escape it.

It lasts hours or minutes. Maybe even days. Any time spent with the Joker rutting into him like an unfixed dog is too long. Each thrust is one too many. The pain that splits him in half and burns at the base of his spine might never go away. Joker’s hands might as well stay pressed into his hips for all eternity, because Jason knows, no matter what happens after this, that he will never, _ ever _ be able to forget the feeling.

And then, without warning, unceremoniously, it’s over. Jason doesn’t even realize it at first. It’s not like he has some reference level for this sort of thing. Joker just makes an odd noise and stills inside of him, and then pulls out, what feels like all of Jason’s insides slipping out after him. Joker wipes himself off on the dress, still hiked up around Jason’s trembling legs. He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to close them.

“Wasn’t that _ fun?_” Joker asks him, grinning, patting his leg with one hand while he tucks himself away with the other.

Overloaded in body and mind, Jason doesn’t answer. Unconsciousness grabs him and drags him down like a thousand hands covering his eyes and ripping him out of his body, plunging him into an endless black that echoes with laughter and lights up with bright, vibrant red.

Not for the first time, he hopes that he won’t ever wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I had something to say at the end here, but uhh... nope. can't remember it. uh.
> 
> follow me on [twitter?](https://twitter.com/ultradadnaya) (my old one got suspended for crimes of who knows what on main, come join me on my new one and yell at me there)


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